One Face You Loved
by Vivienne67
Summary: Bella Swan is no good with faces. Seriously no good. Face blind since witnessing her father's murder eight years before, Bella's condition leaves her isolated and unable to help catch the killers. Will Detective Edward Masen be able to crack the case? And can Bella break through the wall of hurt around Edward to convince him his is the one face she loves?
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **__See, I told you I'd be back! Those of you who put me on author alert after reading my pack fic, "Season of the She Wolf" may be a bit surprised to see me writing a B/E fic. Even if you HATE Bella and want to smack the crap out of Edward, give them a chance in this fic for my sake, please. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. _

_Also, let me say, in advance, that I'm aware there's another fanfic out there that incorporates the concept of "face blindness." It's written by an awesomely talented writer and it's probably worth a read, but I intentionally have avoided reading it. Hopefully, what I've done here is different enough from her story to show that there's room in the fandom for more than one fic based on this idea. The idea for my fic came from a movie that I thought fell tragically short of its potential given this cool plot element of face blindness._

_The two most amazing betas in the world, Evelyn-Shaye and MunkeeRajah, are with me again on this story. I love them more than a pumpkin-spice latte with whipped cream on top!_

* * *

_When all the world is old, lad,_

_And all the trees are brown,_

_And all the sport is stale, lad,_

_And all the wheels run down,_

_Creep home and take your place there,_

_The spent and maimed among._

_God grant you find one face there,_

_You loved when all was young._

_**Charles Kingsley**_

"You and your partner are welcome to come by, Detective Masen."

Of course it's a lie—a white lie, the kind that everyone tells just to be polite. The kind that isn't really supposed to count against you. At least, I hope they don't count, because I've had to tell plenty of them—my fair share and then some—in the past eight years.

This one is a whopper. I _hate_ anyone invading my home.

Only Alice and Carlisle move freely through the front door of my sanctuary. Not even Carlisle's wife, Esme, whom I've known all my life, has ever visited in the five years that I've lived here. Although I've already met Masen and his partner once in their offices at the police station, my stomach roils at the prospect of having these brawny, intimidating, _strange_ men standing in my living room. Examining and touching and moving my things. Asking endless questions in subtly accusing tones. Commenting on the lack of portraits and mirrors on the walls.

I _detest_ the thought of them here, but I _do_ want to help them. So I lie like the expert I am, and use the word "welcome" when what I really mean is "Not just no, but _hell_ no."

Masen seems to realize that I'm less than sincere. Although I can't remember his face—of course I can't—I do recall the uncanny perceptiveness he exhibited when Carlisle and I met with him and his partner. It's almost as if the man can read minds.

"Just give me a call before you ring the bell," I say, automatically.

"Is that really necessary? You can look at our IDs through the window before you open the door."

I grit my teeth and bite back a frustrated retort. I'm no good with faces, and I've told him this already. I mean, seriously no good. It's not that I'm stupid or inconsiderate or inattentive. My intelligence is above average. My social skills once were, as well. And I probably pay attention more than most.

For all the good that it does me.

I'm a lot better with voices, and this one … _this_ one jangles every nerve ending in my body, including some that haven't shown signs of life in years.

Even sieved through the dehumanizing filter of the phone, his voice is smoke and whiskey. Slow jazz oozing through the thick, sultry air of a New Orleans night. The sensual stroke of velvet across sweat-slicked skin. Pure sex in liquid sound. My body remembers this voice, and it reacts with a surge of aching want that is completely alien to my reality. I almost laugh aloud at the absurd inappropriateness of my physical response.

Still, I can't afford to change my defensive habits just because a man's _voice_ makes me think of things that a woman with my disability has no business thinking about. Just as I can't recognize a face, I can't match a photo ID with the face of the person holding it. I identify people through voices and visual cues unrelated to their facial features.

"I can't open the door unless I know it's you."

"Can't, Miss Swan?" He's clearly annoyed now, and no longer making an effort to conceal it. "Or won't?"

Even a casual listener would register the undertone of offence in his velvety voice. Devoted student of vocal nuance that I am, his pique is as apparent to me as if he's shouted obscenities.

"Won't," I concede. "As I explained when we met at the station last week, I'm not able to recall faces. For safety's sake, I don't open the door unless I can confirm a visitor's identity with a phone call."

"Is that so?"

He's not just irked, he's _insulted_. Disproportionately so, given the circumstances and in light of the details I've already shared with him about my condition. There's more to his reaction than simple aversion to the inconvenience of my little identity test. He's taking this personally, and I'm not sure why.

I don't want the man in my home, but I don't want to offend him either. I want to give him whatever help I can, even though I know it ultimately will be useless at best and a time-suck at worst.

Tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear, I grab my palm-sized notebook off the coffee table. Quickly, I flip to the pages where I recorded my observations from my meeting with Detective Edward A. Masen and his partner, Jasper Whitlock.

Although the surly, defensive Detective Masen is on the phone today, it was the courtly and courteous Whitlock who called last week to introduce himself as one of the cold case investigators newly assigned to my father's file. He'd asked me to go to the station and meet with him and his partner. I took Carlisle with me. I needed his emotional support—not to mention his professional help—in dealing with the trip downtown and the trauma of seeing so many faces all at once.

I haven't bothered to review my notes since then. Now I scan them rapidly, hoping for a clue as to why Masen's annoyance seems so out of proportion to the situation.

Whitlock's page is full of densely scribbled notes. I've underlined the features that I think will be most helpful in recognizing him in the future: _tall, curly blond hair, blue eyes, sexy southern drawl, very gentlemanly. _At one point I jotted: _Should try to introduce him to Alice. Just her type!_

This page is typical of what I do upon meeting someone for the first time. I make detailed notes about things like hair color and style, distinctive habits, accents and vocal patterns, what they do, how they stood, sat or moved. It's not unusual for me to fill several pages for a single person. Carlisle calls it coping. I call it something else: self-defense. The more I can record about people, the more likely I'll be able to identify them through non-facial clues the next time we meet.

In stark contrast to Whitlock's page, the uncharacteristic lack of detail on Masen's sheet is nothing short of shocking.

_Det. Edward A. Masen. Early 30s? Green eyes. Reddish hair._

_Fuck. HOT. Too bad I won't remember this one._

The "fuck hot" is underlined three times for emphasis, and I can't help but wonder what I was thinking when I wrote it. It's not as if I have any basis of comparison by which to make that assessment of Detective Masen's looks. It's not as if I can remember what fuck hot is supposed to look like. But those underlined words do offer a clue as to what Detective Masen's problem may be right now.

If he's good-looking enough to convince _me_ of it, he's probably also the kind of man who isn't used to being forgotten by members of the opposite sex. My assertion that I don't recall his handsome face has likely bruised his male ego.

Well, it can't be helped, and it's certainly nothing personal. I am face blind.

I've already told Masen and Whitlock this, even though I'm sure they read it in the files before we ever spoke. I urged them to Google it. Look it up on Wikipedia. I have—repeatedly, although the information never changes. It's a real problem. A real bitch of a problem. Simply put, my brain is no longer capable of creating the neural connections that would allow me to remember a face.

In the beginning, I would spend excruciating amounts of time—as much as I could steal—cataloging every feature, each mole and hair, eyelash and wrinkle, dip and divot and dent of every new face. It didn't take long before I realized this was exhausting, impractical and, ultimately, useless—because every single face was new, every time I saw it, no matter how many times I saw it. Regardless of how much effort I invest in trying to memorize a face, I am doomed to forget it as soon as the owner walks out of my sight.

Not long after I gave up focusing on trying to remember faces, I began to keep my clue journal. That notebook of visual cues is why my doctor, Carlisle Cullen, my late father's best friend, wears outlandishly outdated bow ties, even on the weekends and hottest dog days of summer. It's why my best friend, Carlisle's daughter, Alice, hasn't changed her distinctively short, spiky hairstyle in nearly a decade, even though the woman lives and dies by the latest fashion trends.

The neurologist who diagnosed my disorder said there was always a slim chance the problem would resolve itself given time. Or that I'd one day see a face—just one out of the thousands a person encounters in a normal lifetime—that would stick, and I'd know the next time I saw it again.

After eight years, I've given up hoping for that one face.

I've come to accept that I will never again feel the warmth and security that comes with seeing a familiar face. I'll never again recall facial features. Not even the face of my small-town police chief father, whom I'd loved more than anyone, nor the faces of the men who'd gunned him down in front of me eight years ago.

After pumping five bullets into my father's chest, those same men clubbed me in the head repeatedly with a steel pipe and left me for dead. Only I didn't die—well, not completely.

My body survived the beating, but my brain was damaged. I was just eighteen and strong and determined to live. Maybe that's why the murderers of Chief Charles Swan only managed to kill the part of my brain that creates memories.

The irony is that they couldn't have done a better job of silencing me if they _had_ killed me.

If I'd died, maybe there would have been forensic evidence to help investigators identify Charlie's killers. But as I am—a witness without the ability to remember the killers' faces—I'm worse than useless. Over the years, countless police officers and detectives have wasted a multitude of man hours trying to get me to remember, trying to make something out of the worthless bits and pieces I did recall about that night.

Detectives Masen and Whitlock are just the latest in a long, beleaguered line of investigators. I wonder how many times we'll meet before they realize I'm useless. Before they give up.

Desperation and despondency percolate in my mind. Abruptly, I'm overwhelmed by the certainty that Masen and his partner are my last chance to find my father's murderers. If … when … they walk away, Charlie's case will ice over once again. Finally and forever.

"Miss Swan?"

Even rife with annoyance, his voice still makes my nerve endings tingle.

"I'm sorry, Detective Masen. My doctor and I did explain my condition to you. I'm sure you can understand my caution."

His exasperation crackles over the phone line. "Yes, I remember what Dr. Cullen said."

But I can tell he doesn't really believe it.

He isn't the first cop to suspect that I am intentionally obstructing the investigation into my father's murder. Over the years, my cooperation has convinced some of the reality of my condition, but far more have walked away sure that I am either delusional, too spoiled to care, or just plain lying.

Masen's skepticism is nothing new. Still, for some reason I can't explain, it gets under my skin. Suddenly, I experience a rare flare of anger.

"Detective, I'm not making this up," I say, petulant as a child who's been wrongly accused of stealing the last cookie from the jar. "I want to find my father's killers as much as you do. More. Believe me."

His momentary silence communicates his surprise at my minor outburst. Finally, he clears his throat.

"Yes, well, I'm sure we all want to see justice done. There have been some new developments since we met, and Detective Whitlock and I would like to go over them with you. We'll be at your house in thirty minutes, if that's okay."

It isn't really a question. He's done with me, at least for the next half hour, when he and his smooth-talking partner will show up on my doorstep and upend my tranquility.

Resigned, I agree. "That's fine, detective. I'll see you then."

He disconnects before I have a chance to remind him again to call when he reaches my door.

When the dial tone sounds in my ear, I hit the speed dial for Carlisle. If he can get here before Masen and Whitlock, he could relieve one layer of tension between us. He'll recognize both men. He'll be able to open the door without requiring them to go through my aggravating little ID test. And, if I'm honest with myself, I could use the comfort of his fatherly, familiar presence.

Guilt and self-loathing niggle at my awareness as I listen to the phone ring. I hate being dependent on others.

Financially, I don't need anyone. Charlie had a ridiculous amount of life insurance for a small-town police chief—enough to cause the first investigators to thoroughly examine the possibility that I'd been involved in his murder for the insurance payout. Between that money and what I make as a freelance copywriter, I'm able to live mortgage-free in my modest little bungalow in the Seattle suburbs. But my work-at-home career and financial independence also serve to further insulate me—Carlisle would say "isolate"—from the outside world.

Even though it's his day off from the hospital, he answers on the second ring.

"Hello, Bella. How are you?"

His voice is melting marshmallows swimming in rich hot chocolate. Your dad's favorite old sweater tucked around your shoulders on a chilly, rainy Sunday afternoon in autumn. He'd spent his entire career as a small-town doctor in podunk Forks, Washington, where Charlie was chief of police. But when my father died, Carlisle moved to Seattle with Esme and Alice, and made it his mission to take care of me.

"I'm okay." My shaky voice tells him clearly that I'm not, but he doesn't call me on my fib. He simply waits for me to continue. "Those detectives we met last week … the ones that are working on Charlie's case? They're going to stop by in a half hour. Is there any chance—"

I don't even have to finish my question.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says immediately, without a trace of resentment that I've probably interrupted his day. He adds, automatically: "Brown jacket, white shirt, blue tie with yellow polka dots."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Carlisle. I'll see you in a little while."


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N:_** _Thanks to everyone who reviewed and put this story on alert. I realize the first chapter was a slow start, but things are starting to roll now. If you're reading, please review and let me know what you think. Reviews are love, you know. Speaking of love, my betas Evelyn-Shaye and MunkeeRajah worked their magic with this chapter too, although it's been so long since they read it that they probably don't even remember it anymore! (I took my time about getting this story up and running.) __  
_

_Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.  
_

* * *

_People that I meet and pass  
In the city's broken roar,  
Faces that I lose so soon  
And have never found before,_

_Do you know how much you tell_  
_In the meeting of our eyes,_  
_How ashamed I am, and sad_  
_To have pierced your poor disguise?_

_Secrets rushing without sound_  
_Crying from your hiding places_  
_Let me go, I cannot bear_  
_The sorrow of the passing faces._

_People in the restless street,_  
_Can it be, oh can it be_  
_In the meeting of our eyes_  
_That you know as much of me?_

**Sara Teasdale**

OFYL/OFYL/OFYL

Chapter 2

After hanging up with Carlisle, I flip to a blank page in my clue book and quickly note the description he's just given of his attire. Then I spend the next twelve minutes tidying my already neat-as-a-pin house.

Three minutes before Carlisle's anticipated arrival, I realize cleaning myself up might be a good idea, too. I rush into the bathroom and yank a brush through my long chestnut-brown hair. I glance down at my blouse to check for any food stains, rips or worn spots—there are none—and then I'm done. I'm not wearing any makeup that would need to be freshened, and even if I were, I don't own a mirror to help with that task.

I haven't looked in a mirror in years.

Long ago I got sick of seeing a stranger's face staring back at me every morning, sick of my toothbrush being more recognizable to me than the features of my own reflection. I don't remember my own face any better than anyone else's, but I do recall that I've always been plain. Bland brown hair and boring brown eyes. I think, now, in retrospect, that I have probably _always_ been forgettable. It just took a brain injury to make _me_ realize what everyone else had been seeing—and forgetting—for years.

The timid, tinny chime of the doorbell draws me out of my mental meandering. I move to the triple-bolted door and peer through the eye-level peep hole.

A tall, blonde, fiftyish man with a gentle smile and the first hint of laugh lines around his blue eyes waits on my front porch. His face is, of course, totally unfamiliar to me. His brown jacket and garish bow tie, however, confirm his identity, even as his much-loved voice carries through the door.

"Hello, Bella. It's Carlisle."

I open the door and step aside, waiting until Carlisle is fully over the threshold with the door closed behind him before I squeeze my eyes shut and accept his welcoming hug. It's always easier to touch him and Alice with my eyes closed.

Shutting out the visual distraction of images my brain can't interpret allows me to focus on the things I do recognize, like the scent of his aftershave, the gentle sound of his voice and the warm, familiar pressure of his arms. In fact, I don't recall the last time I've touched someone while looking at them, not even when I shake hands with a new person. I either close my eyes or stare at their collar. Surprisingly few people notice that I'm not looking directly at their faces.

Detective Masen noticed.

And while I can't conjure the details of his face, I do remember the way his body stiffened and his fingers gripped a little too tightly. He hadn't liked it that I didn't look at him when we shook. I'd have to remember to meet his eyes if he offered his hand again. It would be worth the moments of discomfort if it helped improve his opinion of me, even just a little. If he thought well of me, maybe he'd be more committed to pursuing Charlie's case.

I sigh and step out of Carlisle's embrace. "Hi yourself," I reply, pretending his bowtie needs straightening. Of course, he knows what I'm doing. I'm focusing on what's familiar as I greet him. It helps ensure the affection I feel will make its way into my voice.

"Punctual as ever," I gently tease, finally looking up into his blue eyes. "Thanks for coming, Carlisle."

"Of course," he replies easily, and moves past me into the living room.

He quickly scans the room before suggesting I sit in the armchair. He'll answer the door for the detectives, usher them into the room, reintroduce them, and direct them to sit on the couch. From the armchair, I'll be able to see them when they enter the room and when they sit down, all while maintaining a comfortable distance from them.

I perch in the chair and Carlisle begins leading me through our familiar routine, reviewing my notes from our meeting with the detectives. He's filling in any blank spots in my observations, helping refresh my memory of non-facial cues so that I can be a little less uneasy with the interlopers who are about to enter my quiet little haven.

The lack of detail on Masen's page has Carlisle raising an eyebrow at me. I'm only mildly embarrassed when my surrogate dad reads the words "fuck hot" in my handwriting; my anxiety over the impending intrusion into my home is superseding all other emotions.

When the doorbell tinkles again, Carlisle gently squeezes my hand where it lies on the arm of the chair. He knows my stress levels are soaring right now, and not only at the prospect of seeing again faces that I _should_ remember—but never can. I'm shaken that I will have to endure that disconnected, helpless feeling here in my home, where I'm supposed to be safe and grounded.

"Deep breaths, Bella. You'll do just fine."

The front door is just out of my line of sight in the small foyer, and when Carlisle disappears around the corner to answer it, I mentally gird myself. I remind myself to focus on his tie when he returns with the detectives, so that I won't feel so much like I'm facing three strangers instead of just two.

He greets the newcomers, intentionally pitching his voice so that it will carry clearly to my ears.

"Good afternoon, Detective Whitlock. It's good to see you again."

Whitlock replies and I immediately recognize his lazy, smooth drawl. It makes me think of mint juleps, a shaded porch on an antebellum mansion, and Spanish moss draping from the low-hanging limbs of towering, venerable oak trees. He matches Carlisle's tone, making me wonder: Does he understand why my doctor is here? Why Carlisle has addressed him in that slightly elevated, projected volume?

"Good to see you, too, Doctor Cullen. Thanks for helping us out last week. Guess you're here to lend a hand again?"

Carlisle's reply is as genial as Whitlock's greeting. One would almost think the men friends, or at least mutually admiring of each other's gentility.

"Yes, Isabella contacted me after your partner called. I understood that Detective Masen would be here, too. Will he be joining us?"

I realize that Whitlock is alone. Where is Detective Sex-Voice? Maybe something came up at the last minute to draw his attention away. Strangely, perversely, the thought chafes.

"He's just in the car finishin' up a phone call," Whitlock explains. "He'll be in directly."

It's not relief I feel at this news, because I couldn't ever feel positively about a stranger entering my home, even one as intriguing—yes, that's as safe a description as any—as Detective Masen. But my bizarre disappointment dissipates at the confirmation that I'll shortly become reacquainted with the owner of that tingle-inducing voice.

Two strangers stop on the threshold of the living room. Rationally, I'm aware that one is the detective, whom I barely know, and the other is my doctor, who loves me like a father. It takes a moment, while they pause in the doorway, to focus on the familiar cues of Carlisle's tie and jacket. Both men watch me as I study them, and I can see Carlisle register the instant in which I've identified him.

"Bella, Detective Whitlock is here."

Even though I've had thirty minutes to prepare myself for this moment, my heart still pounds at the presence of this strange face in my living room.

Studying the younger man, I struggle to keep my mind focused on the cues from my notes on Whitlock. Curly blonde hair. Blue eyes. Tall and lean. Southern accent. It helps that his smile seems friendly and open.

" 'Lo, mam," he drawls. "Thanks for seeing us at home."

I strive for a calm, collected tone and marginally succeed. "No problem, Detective. Please have a seat."

I gesture to the couch, hoping he'll leave the end close to me for Carlisle. He doesn't. When he's done settling on the near end of the couch, he's less than five feet away, and seriously encroaching on my personal comfort zone. He's too close too soon. My composure is rapidly becoming as frayed and thread-bare as the couch upholstery.

He notices, and his already-courteous tone takes on an even softer, more solicitous shade. I appreciate the effort, but it doesn't really help. After all, it's not his voice that's freaking me out; it's the gut-clenching strangeness of his face transposed over my brain's conviction that I _should_ know this man because I've met him before.

"You doin' okay, m'am?"

I don't want to admit it, but I'm not okay at all. I feel adrift and out of my depth, as I always do when forced to interact with anyone outside my tiny little comfort zone. I don't even have home-court advantage; experiencing these feelings here, where I should be safe and confident, only intensifies them.

Stress scurries up my spine, like a scorpion scuttling over shifting sand.

Whitlock must have some super-natural empathic powers because his expression conveys that he's completely clued in to my mounting anxiety. He's watching me with concern clearly written in his cerulean eyes. His well-shaped lips part slightly as if he's on the verge of speaking, but remains unsure what to say to the crazy lady who's about to lose it in front of his eyes.

Carlisle intercedes.

"Detective, Bella says you mentioned some new developments in her father's case?"

His question is obviously intended to distract me from my burgeoning meltdown, and it works. For now, at least.

"Yes sir. That's right," Whitlock drags his gaze away from the spectacle of my derailment to reply to Carlisle. "We've recently gotten a new lead, and some information that has us a little concerned about Miss Swan's safety."

"Bella," I mutter automatically, then cringe at my thoughtless encouragement of familiarity. I don't know this man. I don't _care_ to know him. I never have any desire to get to know new people, because really … what's the point?

Whitlock grins boyishly. "Bella," he self-corrects.

Of the three of us in the room, only Carlisle seems concerned about the news that my safety may be in question.

"What are you saying, detective?" His voice is tight and strained. "Do you have reason to believe someone is after Bella? Is she in danger?"

Whitlock's voice takes on a soothing undertone, gently washing currents of calm past my ringing ears. "While we have no specific information at this time, there are rumblings among some of our sources that the men who killed Chief Swan have taken a renewed interest in Bella. Obviously, that raises some concern for her safety."

My heart is thudding loudly now, in direct competition with the ringing, buzzing clamor in my ears. I can barely hear my own weak, pathetic voice over my internal cacophony. Vaguely, it registers that Carlisle has come to stand beside me, still in my line of vision, his hand lying protectively on my shaking shoulder.

"Why would they be interested in me? I don't know anything. I'm no danger to them."

The sound of my front door opening delays Whitlock's reply and for one fear-filled wildly irrational moment I'm sure my father's killers have come for me at last.

Terror engulfs me and my throat closes, cutting off my oxygen with less than half a lungful of breath in my body. The buzzing in my head escalates as my anxiety eats up my meager air supply. My gaze is welded to the doorway that leads from the entry foyer into the living room, and I know my doom is about to step through it.

With an energy and will I'd thought long dead, I spring to my feet to face it.

"That'll be Detective Masen," Whitlock says.

He's turned toward the doorway, showing me his back, so he's missed my frantic leap from my chair. He's completely oblivious to the crushing weight of disastrous fate that's about to slam down on me. He sings out as if the world somehow _isn't_ about to implode.

"We're in here, Edward."

Footsteps, light and quick, advance across the postage-stamp foyer and suddenly, the owner of the tread fills my living room door. Every atom of my awareness, the entirety of my existence, narrows to a basketball-sized focal point centered on the face of the man standing in the doorway.

The half-breath I'd held flees my body completely. The cacophony in my head stutters into abrupt sepulchral silence.

I am totally, mortally enthralled.

Whitlock and Carlisle fade into the background. They are muted white noise, as insubstantial as feathery brushstrokes of snowball white on a blank canvas.

All I can see is _his_ face.

Every outrageously long eyelash. The commanding presence of each perfectly arched eyebrow, both three shades darker than the artful disarray of his bronze locks. The entrancing half parenthesis of the dimple nestled in the upturned corner of his mouth. The lush, verdant depths of his glittering green eyes.

He is excruciatingly _beautiful_ to me, and suddenly, I am certain his is the only face I'll ever _want_ to see again. I'd be happy to gaze at him for all eternity, because I _know_ him.

_I remember him_.

For the first time in eight years, I recognize a face. Impossibly, _his_ face is my one in a thousand.

It's not until he lunges toward me—arms outstretched, shock and concern blooming in his rainforest eyes—that I realize I'm falling. I'm collapsing into the darkness behind my eyes, my trip into oblivion courtesy of my vacationing lungs and oxygen-deprived brain.

His powerful arms close around me as I topple. His scent, musky and masculine, surrounds me. My last coherent thought as my eyes slide shut is a terror-filled question:

If I lose sight of his inhumanly perfect face in this moment of weakness, will I ever know it again?


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and the many people who've put this story on alert. Remember folks, reviews are love, and we all need LOTs of love! Evelyn-Shaye and MunkeeRajah toweled my forehead through this chapter. I love them more than marshmallows melting in hot chocolate!  
_

_Twilight is the intellectual property of Stephenie Meyer.  
_

* * *

_A face devoid of love or grace,_

_A hateful, hard, successful face,_

_A face with which a stone_

_Would feel as thoroughly at ease_

_As were they old acquaintances,_

_First time together thrown._

**Emily Dickinson**

OFYL/OFYL/OFYL

Chapter 3

With the shower running in my closet-sized bathroom, Whitlock and Masen probably think I can't hear the hushed, heated conversation they're having in the living room. But I'm a good listener and a shameless eavesdropper—at least I am where _he's_ concerned.

I press my ear to the cracked-open bathroom door, straining to hear.

It's been two months since my mortifying fainting spell. One month since the increasingly obvious threats to my life bumped Charlie's case off the back burner and into the realm of an active investigation. Three weeks since the police decided I should hide out in a safehouse. Twenty days since my refusal to leave my own home forced the detectives to start guarding my house—one inside, one outside in an unmarked car.

Throughout this time, I've been finding every excuse imaginable to see Detective Masen, and to spend as much time in his presence as possible. Every time I look at his familiar face, I wallow in the sheer delight of recognition. Even now, after he's left my sight and returned a total of forty-eight times—yes, I've been counting—I still can barely repress my dread at his departure. I stagger beneath the fear that the next time I see him I won't know his face anymore.

I can't bear the thought. If that happens, if I lose my ability to recognize him, I'll become again the spent and maimed thing that I was before he entered my life.

I know my fixation is unhealthy, and I suspect he's aware of it and that it creeps him out, but it is simply beyond my control. I _crave_ the sight of him. I am utterly addicted. He is my own personal brand of heroin. And though I know we're on a collision course with heartache, I've still felt more alive—more myself—in the past two months with him than in the entire eight years before.

"Christ, Edward! Why are you being such a prick? Can't you cut the girl some slack? You've barely said two civil words to her all week. What the hell is your problem, man?"

I wait, breath dammed by my dry tongue, to hear his reply to Jasper's challenge.

Yes, Detective Whitlock is now "Jasper" to me. And sometimes he's even "Jazz." After two months of watching him work my father's case, we have—amazingly—become friends.

I now know he transferred to Seattle two years ago from the homicide division of Fort Worth, Texas because he was fleeing Maria, his psycho-bitch ex. That he lives alone with a geriatric, flatulent bloodhound named "Boo," and that he hasn't had a date in six months. He calls his father "sir" and "Daddy," and still worships at the foot of his mother's pedestal, which he's erected so ridiculously high I actually feel sorry for any woman who ever tries to climb it to compete with her.

He knows that I haven't seen Renee, my own flaky, flighty mother, in five years because my condition overwhelms her. He knows not to approach me physically until he's been in my sight for at least twenty minutes. He even knows about the one-night stand I indulged in two years ago, and that I sometimes consider doing it again, even though I felt like a whore afterward, because I crave the fleeting sense of connection the encounter provided.

I've come to recognize the innate kindness and compassion that lies at the root of Jasper's unfailing empathy. I like him, and he likes me. So much so, that he's taken to wearing a single white rosebud pinned to the lapel of his suit jacket on the days when he'll be one of my guards. When his jacket is off, he rolls his left shirt sleeve above his elbow, and leaves the right lower, on his forearm. These gestures are his southern gentleman's equivalent of Carlisle's bowties and Alice's pixie 'doo.

Emmett McCarty, the huge ninja teddy bear who alternates guard duty inside my house with Edward and Jasper, has taken Jazz's example, and always arrives at my door wearing a backward Mariners cap. He so rarely takes it off that I'd have no idea at all the color of his hair if it weren't for my clue notebook. His robust, ebullient laugh is so distinctive and frequent, it makes the askew cap almost unnecessary. He's the kind of friendly soul that puts one instantly at ease, who never feels like a stranger, not even to me. He had me calling him "Em" within fifteen minutes of meeting him the first time.

In direct contrast to the conviviality of Jasper and Emmett, Detective Masen remains _Detective Masen_ to me. I suspect he takes pains to appear cool and aloof, to make it seem that the act of holding me away doesn't strain his strong, muscled arms at all.

Yet regardless of his treatment of me, I know he is not a maladjusted jerk. His relationship with Jasper—who affectionately refers to him as "moody bastard" and "pretty boy"—is obviously tight, and he engages in easy, friendly banter with Emmett. His few interactions with Carlisle have been courteous and respectful, and I've even seen him bring soft drinks and sandwiches to the officers posted outside my house. In two months of observing him in excruciating detail, it's become obvious to me that Edward Masen is a damn decent guy—to everyone else. Yet when he interacts with me, he dons the armor of abrasive, distant _Detective Masen_.

He makes no effort whatsoever to befriend me, or distinguish himself in any way from my other protectors. Maybe that's because he realizes he doesn't need to; I'm already fixated on him. And for some reason beyond my full comprehension, that fact irks him irrationally.

That irritation comes through clearly as he hisses in response to Jasper's challenge.

"What do you want from me, Jazz?" he growls, his angel's voice low and menacing. "Just because Little Miss Amnesia has a thing for my face, am I supposed to cozy up to her like you and Emmett? You both should remember we're here to do a job."

His footsteps pace to the dining room table, and I hear him paw through the paper bags of fast food that he brought with him when he arrived a few minutes ago to take over from Jasper for the night. My throat closes painfully and hot tears of humiliation sting my eyes.

It's stupid to feel rejected. I know this. Masen has never made any overture that would even hint at anything between us beyond a strictly—stiffly—professional relationship. Yet my smothering fear of losing the one familiar face I've found in eight years is rapidly evolving into something more. Despite his icy treatment, regardless of his attempt to appear unforced as he pushes me away, I'm falling for Edward Masen. I ache with want. Throb with a yearning for something more. Something that would keep him in my life after this nightmare period of hiding ends.

I'm confident it _will_ end, and probably sooner rather than later. It's only luck—mine or the killers?—that Jasper and Edward haven't yet cracked this case. But they will. They are smart, seasoned and, most of all, determined—Jasper to bring my father's killers to justice, and Edward to get the hell away from me.

"Is that your problem? You think she likes your _looks_ too much?" Jasper's voice vibrates with incredulity. "You are one messed-up asshole. She's not _like_ that, Edward. She's not Tanya."

_Who's Tanya?_

The sound of a chair abruptly scraping over wooden flooring makes me cringe. The venom in Detective Masen's voice burns through my skin, seeping down through the layers of muscle and blood vessels until it corrodes my very bones.

"I don't give a shit _what_ she's like. I'm not here to be her buddy. I'm here to keep her alive long enough to find her father's killers. That's it. Once the job is done, Little Miss Amnesia can just forget she ever saw my face."

_I can't. I won't. I don't want to. Ever._

"That's cold, man."

Disgust has further softened the vowels and truncated the final "ing's" of Jasper's accent. The loosening of his drawl makes it difficult to catch his words and I press my ear closer to the sliver of open door.

"That girl has been through hell. She didn't just lose her father that night, she lost _everyone_. Pretty much everyone she knew then, and everyone she's ever _gonna_ know."

"Not my problem," Edward barks.

"Did you know her fiancé dumped her after it happened?"

Jasper's revelation hangs in silence. He continues, apparently recognizing an opportunity to goad from Edward the reaction he desires. What that response might be, and why it matters so much to Jazz to achieve it, is beyond me.

"Bastard said he was tired of her screamin' him awake every mornin' because _she_ just woke up next to him and didn't know who he was. Said he couldn't handle havin' to _prove_ himself to her over and over again. Asswipe walked out on her just a month after she buried her daddy."

Part of me is angry at Jasper for spilling this humiliating information that I'd told him in confidence. Part of me is curious as to what Edward's response will be. It's not what I expect. His voice is low and lethal.

"Who was he?"

The unexpectedness of the question distracts Jasper, too. Surprise saps the anger from his voice.

"Some dude she'd known since they were kids. Her daddy and his daddy were buddies. Joe … Jake … Jesse—somethin' like that. Does it matter?"

I hear Edward draw breath to respond, but he hesitates as if he's reconsidering his next words. Finally, he murmurs, barely audible on the exhale: "No, I guess it doesn't."

"She's been through hell," Jasper repeats. "Eight years of it. In all that time, your dumbass fuckface is the _only_ one she's been able to remember for more than ten seconds. So would it kill you to be a little bit nicer to her?"

"It just might."

Another lapse of silence has me shifting anxiously from foot to foot on the cool tile floor. How can they draw out a conversation this much? How much longer before one of them realizes the shower has been running for twenty minutes, and they come to check on me?

When Jasper speaks again, low and intense and _accusing_, he sounds like a man who's just deciphered the mystery of the Sphinx.

"She scares the ever-livin' _shit_ out of you, doesn't she? That's why you're being a dick to her. You're scared shitless that her being able to recognize you isn't just because of your face. You're afraid it's somethin' more."

His voice gains conviction, revelation rolling off his tongue like hallelujahs at a revival. "Maybe you even _want_ it to be somethin' more."

Again that pregnant hesitation stretches between them. When he finally replies, Edward's tone is devoid of the anger and resentment I've come to expect whenever my condition and his exemption from it are discussed. What quiet miracle has transformed his voice into this soft, sad dirge of regret and shame … and some other emotion I'm unable to identify?

"That would be all kinds of unethical, wouldn't it, Jazz? If I let it be more. If I let myself _want_ something more with a witness."

Jasper sighs in frustration. "I'm not askin' you to marry the girl. Just stop treatin' her like somethin' you wanna scrape off the bottom of your shoe. Smile at her once in a while, for chrissake."

Maybe Jasper's powers of persuasion are working. Or maybe Edward is just sick of debating.

"I'll try," he mutters tiredly. "That's the best I can promise."

"Good 'nuff," Jasper says over the sound of the front door opening. Then, he adds: "For now." By the time it clicks shut behind him, I've closed the bathroom door and climbed into the shower.

After abbreviated ablutions—because the water has long since run cold—I towel-dry my hair, and drag a comb through it. I pull on simple flannel pajamas and brush my teeth. By the time I'm done with my routine, I've found my equilibrium again. I know I need to check in with my guard—Edward, tonight—before I can retire for the evening. I belt my shabby old bathrobe over my PJs and tell myself I can do this. I can walk into that living room and spend an amiable few minutes with Edward. I shuffle down the short hallway.

He's not turned on any lights in the living room, but the dining room is brilliant and it's there that I find him. The decimated remains of a fast food meal litter the table in front of him, and I wonder—not for the first time—how he, Jasper and Emmett maintain their rock-hard physiques given their usual diet of garbage. He's thumbing through, but not really reading, a book. It's mine, I realize, a volume of favorite poetry that I'd carelessly left tucked in a corner of the couch this afternoon.

When he hears the sad scuff of my slippers on the wooden floor, he looks up, and I'm once again seized by the profound wonder of recognition. I last laid eyes on him around this time yesterday. He should be a stranger to me by now, yet he's not. Because his is the only face I can remember, I've memorized every inch of it. I'm sure he'd be revolted if he knew just how thoroughly I have cataloged his every freckle and mole, oddly curled eyelash and the gradations of pink in his lips.

For once, those lips are not turned down in a frown of tacit disapproval aimed toward my every breath. In fact, he seems chagrined that I've caught him reading my book. He lifts the volume in front of his face, arches a questioning eyebrow and waggles the book at me.

"Poetry?"

I fumble with the belt of my robe, needlessly adjusting it in the hopes of concealing the involuntary shivers his rich, lush voice chases through my limbs.

"Um … yeah," I mumble with all the eloquence of a potted plant. I gesture toward the tome. "Kingsley. He's one of my favorites. I mean, I love Byron and Houseman, too, but Kingsley … yeah, he really does it for me." I break off my babble, now determined not to open my mouth again until it's become reacquainted with my brain.

"Yeah?" Apparently, I'm not the only one in the room suffering from a sudden onset of inarticulateness, although why he should be tongue-tied is beyond my imagining. Still, this is the most amiable conversation I've had with the man since I met him, so I plow forward.

"Yeah. I … uh … I like his … sense of irony and … melancholy."

Asshole Detective Masen peeps through the thin veneer of nice-guy Edward's civility, and snorts scornfully.

" 'Melancholy?' Seriously? Who even _uses_ that word let alone likes something it describes?"

His opinion and snide observation shouldn't matter all, shouldn't sting. But they do. Now I only want to reclaim my book and retreat to the privacy of my bedroom, but on the heels of that thought comes the inevitable dread I feel at the risk of looking away from him. I can't reconcile the two emotions and my cheeks burn with embarrassment while my stomach clenches in frustration.

I snatch the book from his hand, startling him with my speed and aggression.

"I'm sorry, _Detective Masen_, if my reading choices fall short of your lofty literary standards. Next time I'll be sure to leave some Jackie Collins or Penthouse lying out for you."

I'm satisfied and, yes, proud, that I've managed to infuse my retort with just the right formulation of sarcasm and insult. I twirl on my heel, intending to cap my comeback with a powerful flounce from the room, like a battleship under full steam. My sense of victory is short-lived, however, when my near-crippling lack of grace intervenes. I make it only as far as the unlit living room, where my toes snag in the upturned corner of the area rug beneath my couch.

I pitch forward, flailing in front of me in a vain attempt to catch myself. Instead of breaking my fall, my left hand strikes the edge of the coffee table, flipping its heavy glass pane on top of me. My right hand, stupidly, stubbornly continues clutching the volume of Kingsley. I face plant spectacularly, full length, my nose meeting the hard, cold floor with a loud _thwack_—all in clear view of Detective Masen.

Silence reigns for the seconds that it takes for him to shake off his paralyzing shock. His chair clatters to the floor and he sprints into the still-dark living room.

"Jesus Christ!" He yelps. His knees hit the floor near my head and he lifts the miraculously unbroken glass table top off my bruised back. "Are you hurt? No, don't move!"

While both Jasper and Emmett have had occasion to pick me up off the floor in the past two months, I've somehow managed to conceal my disabling clumsiness from Edward until this moment. Now, the proverbial feline has been liberated from the handbag, and I'm sure he'll add this to his list of things about me that he finds egregiously lacking.

He grips my shoulders as if he intends to help me roll over. Under other circumstances, I'd relish the sensation of his hands on my body, but now, sprawled gracelessly on the floor, I can't bear the shame of needing him to help me up. I start to lever myself up, but my bruised left hand spears shards of agony up my wrist. I gasp and roll to my right side, my back bumping against his knees. My eyes clench shut against the pain. Finally, I drop the damn book so that I can seize my throbbing left wrist with my right hand.

"Fuck, Bella!" He bellows. "I told you not to move. You _are_ hurt!"

Until now I've only been "Miss Swan." Not even "Isabella."

Even though he's shouted it, my name on his lips is still more intimate and stimulating than all the excruciatingly embarrassing dirty talk Jake ever attempted. My eyes fly open and lock on his face, which is now hovering inches above mine as he bends forward to get a better look at my arm.

I'm struck again with the intense and chaotic mixture of awe, gratitude and want that crashes over me every time I see his face and _know_ it. The only other time he's been this physically close to me was when he caught me in my faint, and I'm acutely aware of the sex-soaked warmth that radiates off his muscled body.

"I'm alright," I squeak weakly. "I just want to get off the floor. It's cold."

Too quickly for me to frame a protest, he slips one arm beneath my knees and the other behind my shoulder, and lifts me onto his lap as effortlessly as if I were a child. For one horrible—thrilling—moment I think this is as far as he intends to go, that he's going to sit there on the floor and hold me on his lap. But in the next instant, he's somehow knifed his legs under us both and straightened to stand with me still cradled limply in his arms. He steps lithely around the toppled coffee table and deposits me gently on the couch.

He turns on the floor lamp beside the couch, and then sits down next to me—far closer than necessary, I think. He takes my injured hand in his. Long, elegant fingers gently turn and examine my wrist. _He should play the piano_, I think. Then it occurs to me that maybe he _does_, and I just don't know it, because really, I know so little about him at all.

His face is the one constant of my universe, the lodestone of my every breath. It is dearer to me than I can express, yet I barely know him. The realization wrests a small sob from me, and he halts his ministrations, misinterpreting my soft cry as an expression of my physical pain. He abruptly releases my hand as if it's begun oozing acid and his eyes flash to my face, pinching in dismay at what he finds there.

He's obviously not thinking, because his hand lifts and his sensual fingers begin probing the bridge of my nose. It's only when he touches it that I realize the area is throbbing painfully, and I catch the coppery, salty scent of blood. I swallow my grimace and hold back a whimper. He's touching my face and while it hurts like hell, it is also the best moment of my existence. I don't want to do anything that may make him stop.

"Shit!" He mutters. Ah, yes, there's the disapproval I've been waiting for. "You really did a number on yourself." His other hand moves to cup my chin, gently tilting may head this way and that as he examines my battered nose.

"It's not broken …" he pronounces at last. Although his inspection is clearly done, he does not release my face. One hand continues to cradle my chin, while the other plucks away strands of hair that have fallen into my eyes. "… but you're probably going to have a pair of hellacious shiners tomorrow morning."

He's being nice to me. No, more than nice. He's almost being sweet—or at least as sweet as he's capable of being. It's the kind of moment I've fantasized about sharing with him, so I have no explanation for what comes out of my mouth next. Perhaps I'm still stung by his criticism of my reading choices. Or maybe the overheard exchange between Edward and Jasper has hurt even more than I've admitted to myself.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to change my nickname to 'Raccoon Woman' instead of 'Miss Amnesia,' " I snark, astounding us both.

His mossy eyes pop wide and his mouth drops open at the same time his hands fall away from my face. He has the decency to look mildly embarrassed for a few seconds, but outrage quickly moves in.

I've just admitted to eavesdropping on his conversation with Jasper.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: **OK, I have some bad news. I'm going to be out of the country for two weeks in a region of the world where Internet service is not reliable. So this is your last chapter for at least three weeks. Sorry about that, but if you're really cheesed at me, feel free to leave a review and tell me! Thanks to those who have reviewed and those who've put One Face on alert. If you're following the story, don't be a lurker - speak up!  
_

_And all my American readers, remember that tomorrow is election day (how could you forget?). Voting isn't just a right or a privelege - it's our duty. So please vote!  
_

_Evelyn-Shaye and MunkeeRajah read this chapter for me too. I love them more than the words "election's over for another four years."  
_

_Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.  
_

* * *

_I see your face when I close my eyes.  
Every feature, every emotion  
Fills me with joy._

_Your smile thrills me._  
_Eyes that see into my soul,_  
_Cheeks that beam with the love we share._

_A mouth that brings me to my knees,_  
_A tongue that drives me wild._  
_Lips of silky skin,_  
_Rich and full._

_Words of love._  
_Whispered in your sensuous ears._

_Breathing in your scent._  
_Tasting your skin._  
_Kissing every part,_  
_Of your beautiful face._

**Raymond A. Foss**

OFYL/OFYL/OFYL

Chapter 4

Asshole Detective Masen reappears, completely obscuring my brief glimpse of caring Edward.

"Maybe we should go with 'Spy Girl,' " he snaps evilly. "Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to eavesdrop—not to mention stare? Or do you make a special exception to the rules of basic courtesy just for me?"

I flinch as if he's flicked my injured nose with those gorgeous musician's fingers. I reel at how quickly he's escalated our spat, attacking on the front lines of our fundamental conflict.

He knows that I stare at him and _only_ him. Constantly. Every chance I get. I can't deny it, any more than I can stop it, even knowing that he dislikes it. Even knowing that it's a blatant tell that reveals to anyone who cares to look just how pathetically enamored of him I really am.

Shamed, I drop my eyes to my injured wrist. It's only the second time since I've met him that I've voluntarily looked away from his endlessly fascinating face. But not even remorse and embarrassment can keep my eyes from him for long, and I quickly look back up to see he's still glowering at me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper miserably.

I can't interpret the emotions that flicker through his emerald eyes at my apology. He says nothing in reply. Only stands and moves quickly into my galley kitchen.

The freezer door opens and I hear him rummaging around. The door slams and drawers slide open, then thunk shut. After a minute, he returns to the living room and presents me with a towel-wrapped lump of something cold. Taking it from him, I finger the lump. It appears to be a bag of frozen peas. I look at him quizzically.

He resumes his seat beside me on the couch and gestures toward my face.

"For your nose," he explains.

"Oh. Thanks."

Tentatively, I press the towel-wrapped frozen veggies to my face. For several seconds the intense cold actually hurts worse than the injury. But as the numbness creeps over my skin, the pain recedes.

He surprises me by lifting my injured hand and inspecting it again.

"This might be sprained," he observes quietly. "At the very least it's a bad bruise. I'd take you to the emergency room if it was safe."

His evergreen eyes find mine above the half-mask of frozen peas. I'm sure I'm a wretched sight.

"Maybe I should call Dr. Cullen," he muses.

Grandma Swan's mantle clock sits on a wall shelf nearby—I don't have a fireplace or a mantle for it. The antique face indicates that it's well past midnight. Carlisle and Esme are early risers, which means they've almost certainly been in bed for at least two hours already. I hate to disturb them, and I'm honestly mortified at the thought of having to explain how I managed to injure myself.

"No," I protest, shaking my head. "I don't want to call Carlisle this late. I'll be fine. The cold is already helping my nose, and if you could just get me an Ace bandage from the bathroom cabinet, I'll wrap my wrist. It will be just fine in the morning."

He considers for a moment, brows drawn down over his still-angry eyes. Finally ….

"Fine."

He heads to the bathroom to retrieve the bandage, and I hear him open the cabinet.

"Christ, Bella!" he calls. "You've got enough shit in here to patch up a combat battalion. What the hell do you need all these bandages for?"

My nose is now so numb and swollen I'm forced to breathe through my mouth, and my wrist is throbbing in painful concert with the racing metronome of my heart. And that foolish organ is skipping and soaring because he's just used my given name for the second time, without being asked and without thinking about it.

"Um … I fall down, like, a _lot_," I shout back, and the increased volume of my voice reverberates painfully behind my bashed nose. "I'm kind of … clumsy."

His answer is a non-committal "humph" as he returns to stand in front of me. He holds out the bandage and I reach to take it with my injured hand. When I realize that's not going to work, I perform an absurd little juggling act, trying to decide what to do with the frozen peas that are currently occupying my one good hand. I'm aware of how farcical I must appear, and my humiliation is all the worse for realizing he's probably never had such a ludicrous moment in his life.

"Of for the love of all that's holy." He heaves an exasperated, put-upon sigh, unrolls the bandage with a snap and drops to his knees in front of me. "Give me your arm."

Obediently, I extend my injured wrist. When he touches my arm, the energy of his fingers pulsates through my flesh, and I feel pressure and heat in a much lower point on my body.

He begins wrapping the bandage, investing what seems to be a great deal of effort—and time—in achieving precisely the right balance of snugness and flexibility. Most people would watch his hands as he works, but of course, I'm studying his face. I don't even realize I'm doing it—and that he's annoyed by it—until he reprimands me sharply.

"Stop _staring_ at me," he growls without looking up from his task.

Reluctantly, I drop my eyes to his hands, which have almost finished wrapping the bandage. "I'm sorry."

He works in silence for a few more moments, and when he's done, he smooths the bandage a last time. I think: _Now he'll let go. He doesn't need to touch me anymore. He's going to stop touching me now._

I want to weep like a widow at the thought.

When I think I'm going to die from the sheer misery of losing this arousing—albeit clinical—contact, he surprises me again. Instead of releasing me and moving away, he continues to hold my hand between both of his, and he remains kneeling on the floor at my feet. He's still studying my bandage-wrapped wrist. When he speaks, I'm not only startled by his voice, but also by the tone of it—quiet, careful and questioning, but without anger or accusation.

"Why do you do that?"

Of course, I understand immediately what he's asking.

"I can't help it," I offer, apologetically. My explanation degenerates into verbal floundering. "It's just, that it's been so long since I—I mean I've never been able to—to remember a _face._ It's been a really _long_ time and—I want this to mean something more, too. I mean, it _is_ something more, and …."

I choke off my blather and force myself to collect my thoughts. He still hasn't looked up to meet my eyes, but I know this answer is important to him. If I can explain all this properly, maybe I can get him to look back at me and actually _see_ me for once.

I gulp air into my lungs and try again. "You don't know how long I've waited for you."

At my declaration, his eyes flash up to meet mine. I'm encouraged by the absence of any hostility in his expression. In this moment, he seems open. Receptive. Before my courage evaporates, before I retreat into the isolationist cowardice that has been both my fortress and my prison since Charlie died, I plunge forward.

"I've been waiting eight years to see just one face that I could remember, that I could recognize. And now that I've found you, I just can't look away. I _can't_. Your face, it … you … it's become _everything_ to me. It's like Kingsley says: 'God grant you find one face you loved ….' "

The words slip through my lips thoughtlessly, lightly, as if they are weightless and innocent. They are anything but, and we both realize this simultaneously. I gasp, and tears of horror and humiliation well up in my eyes, hazing my view of his astounded face.

"Do you mean—" he stutters. "Are you saying … that you think you're _in love_ with me?"

_I shouldn't have said it. I never meant to say it. Why did I say it? Take it back!_

And again, my mouth moves independently of my will.

"Yes."

That single word rings with steady conviction that belies the hurricane of uncertainty and self-doubt that rages in my head. His eyes grow impossibly wider. He sucks in a shaking, ragged breath and for a moment I almost think he might join me in a good cry.

Suddenly, anger, hard and icy, sweeps over his face.

"No, you're not," he growls implacably. "You only think you are. It's just because of my fucking _unforgettable_ face."

A distinct undercurrent of disgust flows into his voice. He explodes off the floor, backpedals a step, snatches up my discarded peas and thunders into the kitchen.

His reaction is confusing to say the least, especially since it's clear that his anger and disgust are turned inward and not directed at me. Still, my sense of self-preservation warns that I should keep my butt firmly parked on the couch and leave him alone to cool down. Or better yet, quietly retire to my room and relieve him of the imposition of my presence for the rest of the evening.

But part of me recognizes this moment for what it is: a pivot point. On one side, is the lonely, isolated Isabella I've been for the past eight years. On the other, is the free Bella I _want_ to be, and that person can only exist with Edward's help.

Which way should I tip?

I climb to my feet—less quickly than I'd like because I am, after all, still a klutz—and march after him into the kitchen. He's waist deep in my refrigerator, muttering something that sounds like "no damned beer," and doing his best to ignore me. I wait.

Finally, when it's apparent that I'm not going away, he settles for a bottle of water, and slams the fridge door so hard it rattles the stemware I've stored on top of the fossilized appliance. I'm afraid the glasses will fall to the floor and shatter. I'm in serious danger of suffering the same fate.

"You're wrong, Edward," I venture, steadying myself against the small breakfast bar that constitutes one side of my miniscule galley kitchen. I wish it were so easy to steady my voice. "It's not because of your looks."

He wrenches the cap off the water and gulps several swallows before turning his glare on me. It's lethal. He's so angry, I actually find myself wishing he'd left his gun in the car, but of course it's still nestled in the shoulder holster he always wears.

"Sure it is," he snarls. "It _always_ is. That's all I am—to every woman I've ever known. Just an _interesting_ face. A fucking exotic oddity. A trinket that they can show off to their friends."

I'm at a loss. I have no perception of whether or not he is, in fact, good-looking. I find him _mesmerizing_, but I honestly can't say if the rest of the world would consider him so.

His face is the only one I know, so I have no basis of comparison by which to judge if he's as appealing to others as he is to me. But if he is—and his words seem to imply that's what he believes—then why is that a _bad_ thing? Why does it seem to cause him so much anger and hurt?

"It isn't anything more," he rants. "This …" He gestures contemptuously, flicking his fingers back and forth between us. His voice drips sarcasm. "… isn't anything more. You're just remembering a fucking _pretty_ _face_."

I have no idea what to make of this abrupt and unexpected emotional detour he's taken. I can only assume that some shallow, soulless whore mishandled his heart so badly that she convinced him his face was the only reason any woman would ever want him. Yes, I find him beautiful and desirable and—most appealing of all—_known_. But my craving for him goes far beyond those truths. He's also strong and smart. I've seen his loyalty to his friends and his dedication to his job. And he's putting his life on the line to help bring Charlie's murderers to justice.

I need to find some way to make him understand that he's _more_ to me.

I grab one of the high stools from the breakfast bar and drag it in front of the refrigerator. He watches suspiciously as I place one foot on the lowest rung and grasp the door handle with my good hand.

"What are you doing?" he demands, confused by this apparent segue from our confrontation.

I place my weight on the foot that's resting on the stool rung and swing the opposite knee up onto the seat, preparing to drag myself to kneeling atop the stool. It tips precariously backward before I shift my weight, successfully righting it with a loud clack on the floor.

"Getting something from the cabinet," I grunt laboriously.

"Jesus Christ! Get down from there," he commands, firmly grasping my arm and pulling me off the stool. "You'll fall again. Tell me what you want. I'll get it."

For a moment I debate my half-baked, ill-conceived plan. It probably stinks. He probably won't care. But it's all I've got.

"There's a shoebox on the top shelf. All the way in back. I need it."

Nimbly, he steps onto the stool, opens the cabinet … and finds that he has to stretch to reach the back of the shelf in question. "Shit Bella," he huffs. "Why would you put something way up here? I can barely reach it. How do _you_ ever get your hands on it?"

I allow myself to savor his easy use of my name. Apparently, he hasn't yet realized I'm no longer "Miss Swan," or that he's allowing me to call him "Edward." That has to count for something. Doesn't it?

"I don't," I reply as he finally manhandles the shoebox out of the cabinet. He looks at the box in his hands and I can see the muscles in his broad shoulders stiffen beneath the cotton of his light blue dress shirt as he reads the word "Jake" written in Magic Marker on the top. "I haven't looked at this box in eight years."

He jumps down from the stool and offers the box to me. He holds it with the precise mixture of distaste and befuddlement that you would expect from a bachelor handling an extremely soiled and malodorous diaper. His eyes are hard and wary.

"What's in it?"

I accept the box and place it on the breakfast bar.

"Pictures." I lift the lid and begin removing manila envelopes from the box.

"Of?" he prompts in a tone that says he doesn't really want to know.

"My past. Faces that I'll never remember again. My dad. My mom." I find the envelope I've been hunting for and return the others to the box. I open the envelope and turn to him. "My ex."

Now his eyes are clearly saying he doesn't want to see this. Doesn't want to accompany me on this self-abusing stroll down memory lane.

"I don't need to see those," he says, finally verbalizing what his eyes have been shouting since he read the name on the box. Guilt is evident in his voice and eyes, and he's obviously remembering his conversation with Jasper from earlier in the evening.

I ignore his protest and empty the contents of the envelope on the counter. "Jake—he was my fiancé—took all these. He always loved photography when we were kids. It just seemed natural for him to go into it as a career when we grew up."

He presses his back to the refrigerator door, putting as much distance as possible between himself and what I hold in my hands. I sift through the photos until I find the one I think I'm looking for. I flip it over and read what Alice wrote on the back, words that confirm the picture is, indeed, our engagement portrait.

Of course, I don't recognize the small, painfully young and plain girl in the photograph, nor the tall, ruggedly handsome Native American boy who's cradling her left hand tenderly against his chest, his index finger just brushing the modest solitaire that encircles her ring finger. Still, even I can tell from the tenderness in his eyes and the worshipfulness in hers that they are deeply in love.

I turn back to Edward and offer the photo to him. He glares at it as if I'm trying to pass him a bag of dog feces. I think he may not take it, but after a moment he accepts it from me grudgingly. He scowls at the smiling faces in the image.

"That him?" His words are clipped, and they resonate with a low rumble of anger.

"Yes. At least, that's what Alice tells me," I explain. "She captioned all these for me, so that I'd always know who was in the photos, even if I can't recognize them."

His gaze flees the photograph in his hand and locks with mine. His sensual lips part slightly, and tiny lines form at the corners of his stricken eyes. I can tell the full reality of my condition—and all the losses that I've suffered because of it—has just slapped him across the face.

I sort through more photos, flipping them over to read the back, looking for another picture of Jake. I find three, pull them out and pass them to Edward. Again, he's less than thrilled to accept them, but take them he does. He studies each one with an expression that I imagine mirrors the distaste he would display for the mugshot of a serial flasher.

"You can see from those photos that Jake is an exceptionally handsome guy," I state, my voice neutral and bland.

I don't remember Jacob's face anymore, but I do recall that I once thought it perfect. His attractiveness is a fact that brings me neither pride, nor pain, and I only speak of it now because I'm leading up to a point that I hope Edward will get.

He flinches at my bald statement, as if I've flicked my fingers in front of his eyes just to taunt him. I'm not sure what to make of his reaction, but he's not walking away. Not telling me to go to hell. So I press on, taking the photos from his hands. I slip them back in the envelope, return it to the box and close the lid before turning back to Edward, who is still watching me silently. Warily.

"Jacob was my best friend for my whole life, my first lover and the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. He was kind and handsome, funny and sweet, and I adored him."

I feel like I've opened a vein and I'm just waiting for him to lap up the crimson life force as it oozes out of me.

"And none of that made any difference at all. When my father's killers were done with me, I couldn't tell Jake's handsome face from anyone else's, and he left me because of that. So I think it's safe to say that the fact that you're 'pretty,' as you put it, has no bearing on my ability to remember you."

I'm not good with faces, and for all the hours I've spent studying his, I still can't decipher his expression now. Is it pity? Apathy? Revulsion? I don't know. I cross my arms over my chest in an effort to keep myself from flying apart.

"I'm telling you this and showing you this because I want you to understand that there are three things I know for certain."

I breathe deeply to fortify myself for what I'm about to say. The kitchen is so small, and he's standing so close, that all I can smell is his aftershave.

"First, you are a beautiful human being, Edward, inside and out. Second, there is no part of me that doesn't hunger for you. Third, I know what love is because I've experienced it, and I am unconditionally, irrevocably in love with you."

Whatever reaction I'd hoped for, whatever repercussions I'd feared, it wasn't this. He is as still and silent as a statue. In the glare of the overhead fluorescents, his skin is inhumanly pale and his eyes are so dark they almost appear black. He doesn't speak. Doesn't move.

Once, during senior year of high school, Jake and I went cliff diving on the reservation where he'd grown up. I can't recall what his face looked like as we prepared to make that leap, but the memory of how I felt standing on that precipice seconds before jumping—that remains as sharp and frightening as the edge of a fine razor. I'm feeling that helpless fear again, watching Edward watch me. There's nothing for it but to press on.

"It's not just your face that I recognize, it's _you_."

Verbalizing that truth creates a shift in my awareness that is tectonic. Suddenly, everything that was horribly confused is now clear, and I know—at least I _think_ I know—exactly what to say to him.

"I recognize your _soul_, Edward. I see _you_."

His breath hitches, and he gives his head a slight, confused shake.

"And every time I see you, I _want_ you. I don't have the strength to stay away from you anymore."

Now, at last, he is seeing at me. He is _looking_ at me, and the truth is clearly written on his beautiful face. Jasper was right: Edward fears me. Terror clouds his verdant eyes, like frost shadowing a lush, rich carpet of grass.

He's drawing short, unproductive pants and I'm worried that he's moving rapidly toward hyperventilation.

"Breathe, Edward," I admonish him.

He grasps the seat of the stool that still sits in front of the refrigerator, and cautiously lowers himself onto it, like an old man negotiating an obstacle course without a walker. His long legs flop akimbo, his knees and hands tremble. Parting his delectable lips, he moistens them unconsciously with his pink tongue.

"Bella, I … I can't _do_ this," he rasps. "I don't know what you want from me. You're my witness. I can't … we can't …"

He stalls. I wait. Finally, as if he's just remembered that he needs to breathe, he heaves a gasp of air that must be swelling his lungs to the point of pain. He holds it just long enough for the ringing in my ears to crescendo before exhaling in a pained whisper:

"What do you _want_ from me?"

With a boldness the pre-Edward Bella could never have claimed, I step forward between his splayed knees, grasp his lightly sweating face between my hands and press my lips to his quivering mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_**_Ahem. *Blushes shamefully.* I have no excuse for myself. None. For those of you still following this story, thank you. A brief summary since it's been so long you might have forgotten: Bella Swan is face blind, and unable to recognize faces. Edward Masen, one of the detectives investigating her father's unsolved murder, happens to be the one face Bella can remember. With new developments in the cold case stirring things up, police put Bella under protective watch. In the last chapter, Bella has just revealed to Edward that she thinks she's in love with him, and she kisses him. Chapter 5 picks up from there. Thanks for still following the story and I promise to do better with the updates!_

_All things Twilighty belong to Stephenie Meyer. _

* * *

_Your face is the face of all the others  
before you and after you and  
your eyes calm as a blue  
dawn breaking time on time  
herdsman of the clouds  
sentinel of white iridescent beauty  
the landscape of your contesses mouth  
that I have explored  
keeps the secret of a smile  
like small white villages beyond the  
mountains  
and your heartbeats the measure of  
their ecstasy  
There is no question of beginning  
there is no question of possession  
there is no question of death  
face of my beloved  
the face of love_

**Ingrid Jonker**

OFYL/OFYL/OFYL

Chapter 5

The press of his lips beneath mine makes my injured nose throb, but it's the sweetest pain I've ever known. Sliding my hands from his face, I loop my arms around his neck. Tangle my fingers in the soft, silky hair at his nape, and my wrist aches with the movement.

Discomfort is meaningless. I'm wallowing in sensation. Glorying in it.

My breasts smash against his muscular chest. He's broad and warm and solid beneath the wrinkled, starchy dress shirt. His five o'clock shadow softly chafes my cheeks. The delicious, musky scent of man—of _Edward_—sends my head swimming. Blood thrums loudly in my ears, boils beneath my skin.

I am lost in the intoxicating feel of him beneath my lips and hands.

_So_ lost that it takes several long, _long_ seconds to register …

… he isn't kissing me back.

A soft whimper curls up from the back of my throat and I can't swallow it down. Frantic, I press harder against him, lean into him so that he's forced to push back against my weight or topple off the stool. He stiffens his spine, steadying himself against my attack, but his lips remain impassive, like cool granite beneath my desperately greedy mouth.

Cold and sharp as a stalactite in a glacial crevasse, rejection spears through my chest.

I've been here before.

Mortified, I release him. My fingers shake as I push drunkenly against his chest for leverage. Gracelessly, I lift my weight from him. My lips have barely cleared his when I begin to stammer my apology.

"I—I'm sorry."

His hands lay loosely on his thighs; he never put them on me while I kissed him. He is even paler than usual, his lush lips pressed into a thin, strained line. He breathes shallowly through his nose, as if the aroma of my freshly scrubbed body offends him. His eyes are as glitteringly cold and enigmatic as emeralds. They remind me, brutally, that though I recognize his face, I don't really _know_ him. No matter what I tell him to the contrary.

"I shouldn't have," I offer by way of weak apology. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Still he says nothing, and his silence is somehow more damning than approbation. This total lack of reaction speaks more clearly than shouting or cursing. What I have done – what I _am_ – is so unacceptable that it merits no response at all.

For weeks, the craving to see his face – familiar and gloriously _known_ – has consumed my every waking moment, and spilled into my dreams. I've gobbled every glimpse like a starving child served a final meal of chocolate cake. Now, I can't even look at him. Gladly, I tear my eyes away from his stone face.

I stumble backward, bump into the island and grip the countertop for support. The stabbing heat behind my eyes alerts me that I'm about to humiliate myself further. A hasty retreat from the kitchen is imperative.

I manage to show him my back just as the first sob escapes my lips. Miraculously, my mad dash across the living room is unimpeded by the area rug or the fallen coffee table. I make it to my bedroom and close the door softly behind me before crumbling completely. I slide to the floor, my back against the door.

I surrender to humiliation and misery.

I nurse the agony of it. I name myself a thousand kinds of fool. I rail at my disability – a waste of time that I've not indulged in for years. I consider calling Alice, then set the idea aside when I think again of how late it is. For ten soul-crushing minutes, I steep myself in self-loathing and wretchedness.

In minute eleven, my spine regenerates.

I find my rage, and it's not directed inward any more. Now, I am righteously incensed at Edward's treatment of me. The weeks of barely civil interaction. His belligerence when talking to Jasper. The needlessly cold and callous rejection of my kiss. His brutal, off-hand dismissal of me. Of my feelings for him.

I didn't ask for this, I fume. If I'd been given a choice, Detective Edward A. Masen's arrogant, beautiful face would have been the _last_ one I would wish to remember.

What an _asshole_, I tell myself. What an utter shit! How _dare_ he treat me this way?

Immediately, a whisper of doubt reminds me of my suspicions that Edward has been deeply damaged. That those wounds might have more to do with his reaction to the kiss than his feelings – or lack thereof – for me. Relentlessly, I batter down that voice, snuffing it into silence. I'm not even close to being ready to give up my fury.

Fully prepared to unload on Detective Masen the nuclear heat of my outrage, I scramble to my feet. Grasp the doorknob and give my internal reactor a few moments more to build toward total meltdown. When the core is as close to critical mass as I can tolerate, I tear open the bedroom door.

Edward is standing on the other side.

He practically vibrates on the threshold of my bedroom. He is the picture of disarray – bronze locks wildly tousled, shirt tail untucked on one side only, jade eyes wide and pupils so dilated blackness almost consumes his eyes. His right hand grips his service revolver. The knuckles of that hand are so white, the skin over them so tight, I can almost believe the bones will pop through the pale flesh at any moment.

He looks completely unhinged.

My wrath flash-boils away into surprise, leaving me blinking and bewildered.

"Edward? What—"

I don't get a chance to finish because he is on me before the last syllable of his name leaves my lips. He seizes me roughly by the arms, drags me across the room and forces me to the floor between my bed and the wall. My injured wrist, badly jostled, spikes pain up my arm straight into my brain.

My head swims. When the spinning behind my eyes stops, I find myself sandwiched between Edward's hard body and the dingy carpet. Dust puffs into my face, raised by the impact of our combined weight on the floor. I sneeze loudly.

"Quiet!" he hisses in my ear.

He's draped over me like a blanket. A very heavy, hot, _hard_ blanket. If he wasn't totally terrifying me, I'd relish the feel of his muscled body covering mine. But he _is_ frightening me – badly – because _he's_ obviously freaked out. There's no way I can follow his breathy order.

"What are you doing?" I squeak.

As my voice rises on the final upstroke of the question, a soft crack reports through the room. A round hole the size of a half dollar blooms outward from the lower left panel of the closed bedroom door, spewing wood splinters and sawdust on the carpet.

Was that a shot? Is someone shooting at my bedroom door?

I have no time to voice the thought. Edward's command is low, urgent and inarguable.

"Stay down. Be quiet. They're here."

There's no need to ask who "they" are. I already know. I can't remember their faces and I may never learn their names, but I know _exactly_ who "they" are. The men who murdered my father have grown tired of waiting for my memory to return.

A second round hole appears in the bedroom door with an almost-polite _pffft_! The part of my brain that grew up the daughter of a small-town cop recognizes that the sound of a gunshot should be louder. The portion of my gray matter that has watched one too many TV police dramas hypothesizes that the shooter is using a silencer.

_Why are they shooting at the door? Why aren't they coming through it?_ _Shouldn't Edward shoot back?_

"Stay down," he repeats, although I haven't budged an inch from my full-body sprawl on the floor beneath him.

With his right hand training his pistol toward the bullet-pocked door, he reaches above us with his left. Over the bassoon-like thumping of my heart in my ears, I hear his fingers scrabbling against the wall. I turn my head slightly to see what he's doing. He's fumbling with the window above us, trying to open it one-handed while still covering my entire body with his own. It isn't working.

"Fuck!" he hisses, and twists his body in a seemingly inhuman contortion. His shoulder pops audibly and he curses breathily again, but continues to struggle with the window.

Suddenly, it flies open and I wrench my neck peering backward over Edward's shoulder. A dark silhouette looms in the now-open window. It is the personification of every stranger's blank, threatening face and terror wells up. A feeble, strangled shriek escapes my lips. Edward's hand claps over my mouth.

"It's just Emmett," he breathes hotly into my ear. "We've got to get out of here."

Without putting down his gun, he hooks both hands under my armpits and heaves me toward the window, all the while keeping his body between me and the aerated door. Huge, meaty paws seize my waist beneath Edward's hands and drag me up and out the window as if I weigh no more than a doll.

In seconds, I'm face-down on the cold ground beneath the window, pressed flat by a body even larger than Edward's. While the ground beneath me is icy cold, an odd, moist heat is saturating my back.

The nearest illumination is a streetlight at the other end of the block and I'm drowning in darkness. I pray the man on top of me really is Emmett McCarty, because I can't see anything – not that seeing his face would do me any good. If it _is_ Emmett, I wouldn't know him unless he's still wearing his backward baseball cap.

"I got ya, Bella."

The voice is unmistakable: It's the ninja teddy bear. Relief sweeps through my veins. Sandwiched between Emmett's hulking form and the ground, I feel momentarily secure … but acutely uncomfortable.

_My back is wet. Why is my back wet? _

Edward thumps down softly beside us in a crouch. His back presses against the side of my house, and he's managed to fold his tall form into a tight, vaguely triangular ball, making himself as small a target as possible.

"What's our move?" he murmurs quietly.

"Run for my car," Emmett grunts oddly. "It's four blocks west on forty-seventh."

He shifts above me. Cloth rustles quietly. Metal chimes softly.

"Here. Keys," he whispers. A moment's hesitation, then … "I'm hit. Don't wait for me. Go."

Edward curses again, a low oath, and drags Emmett off me. I roll to my back. Edward's cell phone is out and he's dialing. In the faint glow of the screen, he is crouching beside a huge man who's prone and panting. My pulse spikes again at the sight of the unfamiliar face and I squeeze my eyes shut, reminding myself it's just Emmett.

My friend, Emmett. Whose blood is soaking the back of my robe.

Edward is whispering into the phone. "It's Masen. I need an ambulance and immediate backup at the Swan residence. We're pinned down and McCarty's hit."

Emmett's groaning protest drowns out the tinny voice on the other end of Edward's call. "No time. You gotta take Bella and go now man. I'll be fine until backup gets here."

"Fuck that—"

The bark of gunfire from inside the house halts his protest. His phone's screen is still lit, so I can see Edward flinch and duck slightly. His eyes dart from Emmett to me and the indecision written on his face is wrenching. The sound of my bedroom door crashing open decides for him. He claps Emmett on the shoulder, seizes my arm and drags me in a lurching, graceless crawl toward the corner of the house.

"What are you doing?" I hiss, struggling against his hold. "We can't leave him—"

Edward hauls on my arm. "Quiet!" he growls. "Move. Emmett can take care of himself."

We round the corner of the house and he pauses. Fifteen feet away, barely visible in the darkness, a waist-high hedge runs the length of my yard before ending at the street. It's poor cover but better than nothing. We'll need to cross a shooting-gallery of open space, though, to reach it.

Edward moves quickly, pulling me into an awkward squat in front of him. He crouches behind me, his front against my back, his long legs bent on either side of mine, so that I'm completely surrounded by him. My butt is seated firmly in the cradle of his thighs and crotch. Now the crazy, wild hammering of my heart is only eighty percent from sheer terror, because it feels delicious to have his lean, muscled body pressed against mine – whatever the reason.

And even though he's an asshole.

His lips brush my ear and his whisper is so low it's more a soft exhalation of breath rather than an actual vocalization.

"Stay low and in front of me. Keep moving until I tell you to stop. Nod once if you understand."

I bob my head.

"Go!"

I crab-walk forward, scrambling clumsily on my hands and the balls of my feet. Somehow, Edward manages to keep his body sealed around mine. Anyone taking a shot at us from the house is going to plug him first. What good his shielding tactic will do when his dead weight pins me to the lawn, I can't imagine, but I say nothing and keep moving.

Something sharp stabs my palm, but I ignore both that minor pain and the throbbing agony in my injured wrist. Terror for us – and worry over my left-behind friend, Emmett – are smothering any other considerations, now. With more speed than I would imagine one frightened, injured woman and a put-upon cop could manage, we are across the lawn and at the hedge in seconds.

Edward shoves us both over the shrubbery, and just my luck it's holly. A thousand tiny points, evil and sharp like shards of broken Christmas balls, rake over my swollen nose. I whimper – but quietly, because the last thing I want to do is draw attention. Either from Edward or the shooter in the house.

No cars are visible on the street, and my neighbors' houses remain dark and quiet. Even though I've never made any attempt to get to know my neighbors – never even spoken to any of them – I'm perversely annoyed that no one seems aware of the life-and-death drama playing out inside my house.

The cover of the hedge ends at the end of the block, but by the time we reach it we are out of sight of the house – and hopefully out of range of the shooter. Edward drags me to my feet and orders: "Run!"

I do as he commands, but it's a bad idea. I know that even before we've run a single block and the toe of my slippered left foot snags on the heel of my right. For the second time tonight, I'm on my way to a glorious face-plant. This time, however, Edward is beside me. His strong arms catch me around the waist and he somehow manages to right me, steady me and propel me forward – all without breaking his own stride.

"Christ, Bella," he pants, his heavy breathing the only evidence that the pressure of the past few minutes has affected him at all.

Within moments, we come upon a vehicle that I instantly know is Emmett's. Not only is it the only one parked on the street in my suburban neighborhood, it's totally Emmett – big, shiny and loud. Some kind of SUV that wouldn't have fit in my first apartment, let alone in my current garage. When he sees it, Edward swears under his breath.

"Damn, McCarty," he mutters, moving me toward the passenger door. He wrenches it open for me. "Why don't we just wave a fucking flag that says 'Here we are'?"

The door sill is practically waist high and the thickly cushioned seat even higher. I manage to get one foot on the sill and reach as high into the cab as I can, looking for a handhold. I heave myself up and forward with almost no results. I might need a rope and tackle to get in.

Suddenly, Edward's big warm hands cup my rear and boost me into the truck as if I'm weightless. And I'm definitely not. My tingling butt settles into the plush seat as the door clicks shut quietly behind me.

In the next second, Edward is behind the wheel, jamming the key into the ignition. He casts a hard glare across the acre of cream-colored leather separating us. "Duck down and cover your head with your arms. This thing is going to be louder than a bomb when I start it, and we're going to attract some attention."

I follow his order, and when I'm totally hunched over, staring at the muddy splotches my dirty slippers are leaving on Em's pristine floor mat, Edward mutters: "Ready?" I nod into my knees and he starts the engine.

It's loud. Very loud.

But not, as Edward had predicted, louder than a bomb. I know this because I can clearly hear the teeth-jarring percussion of an explosion from four blocks behind us. I jerk upright.

Edward's perfect, beautiful face is shaken in the flickering glow of a distant, raging fire. He's looking out the rear window of the truck. I flail against the seatbelt, struggling to turn and follow his gaze. To see what's put that look of horrified loss on his handsome face.

I don't see much before Edward peels away from the curb, apparently no longer concerned about being quiet. What I see is enough.

Orange flames and black smoke lick the night sky.

My house – the refuge where I've hidden from the faceless world for eight years – is gone.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note: **So, by now you've probably realized that updates for this one are a lot less regular than I'd like. Part of the problem is real life, but the other part is that I'm deeply entrenched in writing my first novel. I'm approaching deadline on it, so once it's in the hands of a publisher, I'll hopefully have more time for fanfic. Thanks for sticking with me._

* * *

_**Stars, Songs, Faces **_

_Gather the stars if you wish it so.  
Gather the songs and keep them.  
Gather the faces of women.  
Gather for keeping years and years._

_And then …_  
_Loosen your hands, let go and say good-by._  
_Let the stars and songs go._  
_Let the faces and years go._  
_Loosen your hands and say good-by._

_**- Carl Sandburg**_

OFYL/OFYL/OFYL

Chapter 6

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I'm eavesdropping on a conversation between Edward and Jasper. Only this time, I'm not even trying to hide the fact. And Edward doesn't seem to care one way or another if I'm listening.

It's a slap in the face, considering I'm one of the topics of their conversation—again. I should be insulted. It should sting badly. But the events of the last six hours have left me so numb I can't feel much of anything other than the lumpy, spring-shot mattress beneath my back.

Edward paces. Five steps to the hotel room window, where his index finger edges aside the tatty curtains to peer out into the parking lot. The drapes match the carpet in the smarmy little motel where he has brought me to hide. Their orange and lime geometric pattern competes vilely with the numerous stains covering them. I choose not to consider the possible source of any of them.

We've been here for exactly one hour and forty minutes and for twenty-five of them Edward has been arguing with Jasper. The hand not occupied with the filthy curtains holds his cellphone to his ear.

Six steps back across the room to the side of the bed where I lay, and he glares down at me without really seeing me.

I stare back because that's what I do with Edward: Stare.

But there is no comfort in it now, and I don't even get the satisfaction of knowing it's annoying him. He's too involved in his argument with Jasper to care what I'm doing at the moment.

Four paces to the bathroom sink, where he pauses and claws the long fingers of his free hand through his wildly disarrayed locks. Then he pivots on his heel in the doorway and repeats the circuit precisely, even down to the flick of the curtains and inspection of the parking lot where Emmett's Hummer sits like a fat man scarfing Big Macs in the middle of a Weight Watchers meeting.

In all the time he's been arguing with Jasper, Edward hasn't raised his voice once. He hasn't needed to. His anger, frustration and insulting distrust have come through loud and clear in every hushed, hurried word. He has not been satisfied with a single thing Jasper has said. From the half of the argument that I can hear, it's apparent that Edward is looking to assign blame for the night's events. His ire manifests in an increasingly limited range of adverbs and adjectives.

"God damn it, how can they not know where he is?" he hisses. "It's been six fucking hours. They can't find a body in six fucking hours?"

A wave of pain ripples through my numbness. Damp heat pricks at the back of my eyeballs. I bite my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut.

"Yeah, I get that it's an on-going investigation. But they can't fucking look for a body while they're fucking investigating?"

I will not humiliate myself further by crying in front of Edward, no matter how bad the situation.

"And what about the shooters? Nothing? How can they have nothing? The fuckers shot up every inch of the bedroom. They can't even find a single fucking shell casing?"

Nothing has the power to wrest tears from me, I tell myself firmly. I am safe and strong in the darkness behind my closed eyelids.

"Yeah I know it's a fucking bomb scene, but there has to be something left besides a fucking smoking hole in the ground."

I will not cry over the memory of my little suburban sanctuary lighting up the sky with flame and smoke. I will not weep over the loss of things that only represented memories I'll never be able to form again.

"Forget it, Jasper. There is no way in hell I'm telling you where we are or where we're going."

Nothing will make me cry. Not the throbbing pain in my injured wrist and nose or the scabbed-over scratches I got crawling over the holly hedge.

"Because clearly there's a mole. How else would the shooters know when to hit the fucking house between guard changes?"

Not the dried blood—Emmett's blood—that has cemented my robe and pajama top to my back.

"When am I bringing her in? When you catch the fucking mole, Jasper. That's when. Until then, she's safer with me. You do your job and I'll do mine."

Not even the fact that no one seems to know if Emmett—my friend the ninja teddy bear, whose face I can't even begin to conjure—got away from the house before it blew up or if he was too close …

A wretched, ragged sob heaves up from my guts, ripping from my throat. Edward stalls mid rant, and I can actually feel the weight of his exasperation settle and press right over the bridge of my poor, abused nose. Eyes still squinched shut, I roll to my side, presenting my back to Edward.

"Shit, Jazz. I gotta go. I'll check in again in two hours. Yeah. You too, man."

The soft electronic beep of the "end call" button is quiet but piercing over the muffled noise of traffic from the nearby highway. I bite the inside of my mouth. It doesn't completely stifle my sobs, but at least I'm not outright bawling. I'm pretty sure that would only annoy Detective Masen even more.

I hear movement behind me, but there's no point in rolling over to see what Edward is doing. He's been so angry and distant since we fled my neighborhood—so focused on keeping me alive and so clearly resentful of that responsibility—that there's no comfort at all in looking at him right now.

Cloth rustles. Water rushes from the bathroom faucet. Turns off. The trickling of droplets falling into the cheap acrylic sink pitters pathetically. Edward's light, steady footsteps cross the small room.

I'm stunned when the bed sinks beneath his weight and his warm hand grips my shoulder.

"Roll over, Bella. Let me look at your face."

His voice is neutral, and the lack of antagonism in his tone is nothing less than amazing. Too astounded to protest, I move with the gentle pressure of his hand until I'm flat on my back. He's sitting sideways on the bed, one long leg draped off the side, the other bent at the knee and pressed along my side. I tingle from the contact and gape up at him. I'm sure I look like a landed fish.

Edward doesn't seem to notice. Those verdant eyes are narrowed and studying me.

"Damn. Your nose looks like hell."

He dabs a damp wash cloth gently against the bridge of my nose and the coolness feels wonderful.

"How did you get these scratches?"

I mumble something barely coherent that must sound enough like "hedge" for Edward to get it. Guilt glimmers briefly in his eyes.

"Sorry about that," he murmurs gruffly, moving his attention to the abrasions. His free hand comes up to cup one side of my face, steadying it while the hand holding the cloth strokes tenderly over my scratched cheeks. "I wanted to get us away from the shooting. I didn't really think beyond that."

I realize he's confessing to more than just ignorance about the holly hedge. He's admitting that he reacted on instinct, rather than the cool professionalism on which he prides himself. That he ran us both like scared rabbits, and that he has no plan for what we'll do next.

The admission—and the accompanying implied apology—are planet-shifting. Suddenly, Detective Edward Masen and I are again members of the same flawed species.

He continues to pat solicitously at my face, even though the coolness of the wet cloth has dissipated, warmed by his hand. The tight line of his lush lips and the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell me he is struggling.

Remorse? Possibly. Trepidation? Almost certainly.

Without thinking, I grasp the hand still holding the cloth and squeeze reassuringly.

"It's okay, Edward. You saved my life. Thank you."

He draws a shaky breath through parted lips. His eyes are intense and determined.

"I'm going to take care of you, Bella." He corrects himself immediately. "Better care than I have been."

He bows his head briefly. Shakes it slightly, regretfully. "I'm sorry I've been such a prick."

Again I'm floundering for words through a sea of bewilderment. "No, no. You' haven't—"

He interrupts my lame protestation with a snort and a skeptical smirk.

"Okay," I relent. Smiling makes my face hurt, but I can't help it. "So you've been a bit of a prick. Just a little one."

Surprise widens his emerald eyes, as if he can't believe what he's just heard.

I hold my breath for one beat. Two. Waiting for the explosion.

Chuckles rattle in his chest. Rumble into an outright guffaw. In seconds, he's laughing joyously like he's just heard the funniest knock-knock joke _ever_, and we've no cares at all.

And God I'd love to laugh too, but my lungs don't contain a single molecule of air to fuel so much as a snicker. I've seen Edward smile before—at some witty observation from Jasper or Emmett's buffoonery. But I've never seen him laugh until this moment. His face transforms from arresting to transcendent.

Edward laughing is simply … breath-taking.

He's too far gone in hysteria to notice my silence, however, and he laughs so hard he slides off the side of the bed onto the floor. His butt impacts with a meaty thump, and for a second his abrupt relocation to the crappy, malodorous carpeting chokes off his laughter.

I can almost hear the absurdity of it hit him, like the wet slap of a soaked towel across the naked skin of his perfect ass. In the next second, he's off and running again, rolling on the floor and clutching his stomach as he bellows maniacally.

I roll to the side of the bed and peer down at him. Now he just looks ridiculous and the sight breaks my breathless trance. I begin to chortle, too, even though the vibration of air behind my nose makes it throb relentlessly.

I have no illusion that anything I've said is funny enough to elicit this reaction. Clearly, his mirth is a coping mechanism, his way to vent some of the energy and emotion he's been wrestling with for the past few hours. But honestly, it doesn't matter at all _why_ he's laughing. He's not screaming, shouting or running from me as fast as his long legs will carry him, and that's all that really counts.

My chuckles wind down long before his, but eventually Edward's laughter dies down to heavy breathing and the occasional amused snort. He's lying on his back, feet flat on the floor, knees bent, arms relaxed and draped over his stomach.

He looks up at me and shakes his head, but he doesn't mean anything negative by it, I can see that.

"Christ, Bella. I needed that." He sighs. Runs the fingers of both hands through his already wild hair, so that it stands straight up on his head. Regards me with glistening eyes. "Thanks."

There's no need to hide my smile or my fixation on his perfect, flushed face, so I don't even try. "You're welcome." Then, because his mood seems to have stabilized, I broach the inevitable.

"Edward, what are we going to do?"

He sighs again and watches me silently for several long, excruciating moments in which I wonder if I've managed to completely destroy his good mood. If I've just summoned asshole Detective Masen.

His answer is calm and thoughtful.

"We both need a few hours of sleep. We need to ditch Emmett's Hummer and get into something less conspicuous. We need to stay low and off the radar—at least until Jazz can figure out where the leak is in the department."

Of course, I'd overheard his conversation with Jasper, but it's still stunning to have him tell me directly that someone within the police department might be feeding information to the men targeting me. My throat tightens and it takes several hard swallows before I can speak.

"Where can we hide?"

His eyes slide away from mine. "I know a place," he murmurs evasively.

Suddenly, he pops up off the floor. He's still not looking at me as he begins to unbutton his dress shirt. Standing beside the bed, he strips off the shirt and holds it out to me. A wave of totally inappropriate, ill-timed lust sweeps over me at the sight of his plain white wife-beater clinging to the sharp lines of his well-defined chest and abs. His biceps flex as he jiggles the shirt impatiently when I don't immediately take it from him.

"Take this. You need to get out of those bloody clothes."

Brainlessly, I pull the shirt out of his hand and gape at him. He seems to suddenly realize I'm back to staring. Instead of his usual annoyed reaction, however, a small almost-smug smile tugs at one corner of his perfect mouth. The smirk dips a dimple into his left cheek, and I'm instantly dry-mouth mesmerized again.

Edward backs up a step or two toward the door of the room and chucks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the bathroom. "Why don't you grab a shower? Use my shirt for now. I'm going to head over to the gas station and see about some food. Maybe find us some clean T-shirts or something."

I'd all but forgotten that our motel sits across a vast parking lot from a highway rest stop. The gas station is a combination fast-food joint and convenience store.

I nod numbly and watch Edward pause with his hand on the door handle.

"Don't open the door for anyone but me," he says. I roll my eyes in response. How dumb would I have to be?

He chuckles at my obvious offense. "Sorry," he says. "Force of habit."

He's got one foot out the door when I call him back.

"Edward?"

He pauses, looking at me with raised eyebrows, silently questioning.

I lick my lips. Collect a few seconds more of courage. "You are coming back, right?"

I'm expecting annoyance—again. Edward surprises me—again. There's nothing irritable or impatient in his soft expression or the gentle tone of his voice.

"Yes, Bella. I'll be back." Then, a glint of asshole Edward emerges. "Don't forget me while I'm gone."

And the door clicks shut behind him.


End file.
